Murder Most Lovely

by Hank Edwards

  The woman ahead of them turned and gave Jazz a wide-eyed look.

  “Oh, please,” Jazz said with an elaborate eye roll. “You’ve heard worse. You know you have. Do not start with me, you will not win.”

  “Next!”

  The voice was bright and sharp, and it got the woman in front of them moving. Michael peeked around Jazz and his umbrella shield to see the eavesdropping woman gush to Russell Withingham as she handed him a couple of books. Russell’s smile was cool, and he appeared tired but attentive as he spoke to her. Despite Jazz’s feelings about his not-quite-ex, Michael liked that Russell seemed to be genuinely listening to a fan.

  “Remember, people, there’s a three-book limit.”

  A tall, wiry man standing close behind Russell’s left shoulder had a blond swoop of hair that fell across his forehead while the rest of it was a glossy raven color. He had a pursed mouth and a sharp, pointed nose as he surveyed the crowd. His cool gaze landed on Michael’s bag of books, and it snapped up to latch on to his face.

  “That’s Norbert, Russell’s mini-Hitler PR rep from the publisher,” Jazz said. “He’s a real treat to have around.”

  “He looks mean. I don’t think he likes me. He just glared at me.”

  “That’s his standard expression. Don’t worry about it. He’s more creepy than mean.”

  “Are you…? Will you be yelling at Russell?”

  “Not yelling. Maybe speaking sternly.” Jazz arched an eyebrow. “You afraid I’m gonna scare him off?”

  “I wouldn’t say that….”

  Jazz flashed him a dazzling smile. “You were in line first anyway, so I don’t know how I ended up in front. You go first. Get your ten books signed.”

  “His assistant said we can only get three signed.”

  “So what? Smile and flirt a little. Russell can’t resist a hot guy who flirts.”

  Michael nearly collapsed. A hot guy? Had Jazz really just called him a hot guy? No one had ever come out and said that about him, let alone to his face.

  “You’re up,” Jazz whispered before he stepped back, keeping the umbrella up on his shoulder to remain hidden from Russell’s view.

  Totally befuddled after Jazz’s compliment—since when was Michael hot?—he stepped up to the table. “G-good afternoon.”

  Russell looked up, his expression bored but polite. “Good afternoon.”

  “Um,” Michael began, glancing at Norbert quickly, then back to Russell.

  Jazz said to flirt!

  Was Michael even any good at flirting anymore?

  Forcing a deep breath, he found his composure and offered a genuine smile. “I didn’t realize there was a limit on books to sign. I mean, how can you only pick three Brock Hammer novels, am I right?” Laugh, Michael, laugh! He thought his chuckle sounded flirtatious as he added, “You wouldn’t be terribly upset if I had, say, ten books, would you, Mr. Withingham?” He added quickly, “I’ll buy the hardcover of the newest book in the series as well of course.”

  “The limit is three,” Norbert snapped. After what Jazz had called him, Michael could imagine the man clicking his heels and raising his right arm in a Heil Hitler.

  But Russell smiled. He raised his hands, not taking his eyes off Michael. “Oh, Norbie, rules are meant to be broken.” His volume increased a bit as he continued, “If Brock Hammer always followed the rules, he’d never solve a case, right?”

  A murmur of agreement and chuckles wafted through the crowd, and Michael heard Jazz’s faint utterance of “Bitch, please.”

  Russell gave Michael a wink, then held out his hand. “Let’s see which ones you brought, Mr.…?”

  “Fleishman,” Michael said, feeling giddy as he fished out his books. Impulsively, he added, “But please, call me Michael.”

  “All right, Michael.” Russell took the first book and glanced at the cover. “A Hard Day to Die, Brock’s first adventure. You have great taste, Michael.” Then, if Michael wasn’t mistaken, Russell gave him a lecherous grin.

  Not to get ahead of himself, but did two men think he was a “hot guy”? This was turning out to be a fantastic afternoon!

  When Michael spied copies of Russell’s upcoming release on the table, he picked one up excitedly. The Bitter Winds of Death was Russell’s first book without Brock Hammer, and it wasn’t even scheduled to be released until next month!

  “This one too, please.” Definitely a fantastic afternoon!

  “Wonderful,” Russell said.

  Norbert told him a price, and Michael handed over his credit card. After swiping it on his tablet, he held it out for Michael to sign, his face pinched into some version of a smile. The new book was added to the new Brock Hammer mystery as well as the ones Michael brought with him, and Norbert muttered under his breath, “That makes twelve.”

  Since Russell didn’t seem to mind, Michael ignored the odd man.

  While Russell extolled the virtues of Brock Hammer and his own literary prowess as he signed each book, Michael kept stealing covert glances at Jazz, still concealed by the large umbrella. After Jazz’s confrontation with Russell, Michael would have to get his umbrella back.

  A perfect excuse to talk to him further.

  Maybe Michael would ask Jazz if he had plans after this. They could go get ice cream or—no, how lame is that? Ask him for coffee or a drink, not ice cream!

  Though that’s not what he really longed to do.

  Michael nodded and smiled as Russell relived each of Brock Hammer’s adventures, all the while his mind conjured images of Jazz, that luscious hair unbound and spread across a pillow, those strong hands gripping the sheets as Michael sucked him hard….

  “How’s the signing going, dear?” a syrupy voice crooned.

  Michael studied the newcomer in surprise. A young man in his very early twenties sidled up behind Russell. His hair was brown with blond highlights, and he wore red skinny capris, chucks, and a navy-and-white tank top that showed a defined but narrow chest. He was twirling a sucker in his mouth in a childlike yet lewd fashion.

  One of the “side dishes” of twink Jazz had mentioned?

  “Wonderful.” Russell beamed up at the young man with that same lecherous smile he’d offered Michael. Turning that grin back on Michael, he held up the second hardcover Michael had purchased. “The Bitter Winds of Death is a mystery, but not a Brock Hammer story. You do realize that, right?”

  “I do, yes. I’m excited to read it. Thank you so much,” Michael said, carefully placing it in his bag with the others. “Thank you, Mr. Withingham.”

  “Please, call me Russell. My father is Mr. Withingham.”

  The young man glared and possessively put his hand on Russell’s shoulder, pressing against the back of Russell’s chair and his arm, staking his claim like a puppy peeing on a fire hydrant.

  What was that look all about?

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jazz planted Michael’s umbrella down like a gentleman’s cane and gestured irritably toward the young man. “You’re a married man but bringing your paramour,” he said with mocking flair, “to signings now? You really have gotten so gauche since I left you.”

  “Jasper!” Russell cried, eyes wide. He stood up at once, shaking off the young man’s touch and looking over his shoulder like he’d been caught red-handed. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Jasper.”

  “Which is why you brought Dylan.” Jazz scowled, stepping forward. “And I live here now. You would know that, if you were sending me the money you owe me.”

  Every eye in the bar turned on them, an awkward silence falling over the customers. Even the bartender stopped mid-martini shake. Michael clutched the bag of books to his chest, unable to look away or step back.

  “Mr. Dilworth,” Norbert hissed, eyes and mouth serpentine slits on his pale face. “You’re causing a scene.”

  “That heinous haircut of yours is causing a scene,” Jazz threw back without even glancing at the fuming PR man.

  Michael’s gaze darted back to Norbert, waiting
for a response, but Russell spoke next. “Norbie, be a dear and see if we have any more copies of Sea of Discontent in the back. My stack is getting low.”

  Norbert’s mouth gaped as wide as his eyes, the shift in expressions so dramatic it was almost comical. Then all of his features melted into a calm, placid look that actually sent a chill down Michael’s back. He bunched his hands into the small of his back and tipped his head. “Yes, I’ll check at once, Russell.”

  Jazz was right. Norbert was one creepy character.

  “I hate to agree with Norbie,” the young man named Dylan all but spat his name. “But I think he’s—”

  Russell raised his hand, and Dylan looked just shy of murderous. But apparently, when Russell said jump, his minions didn’t ask how high—they just obeyed.

  “You got my money?” Jazz demanded, not deterred by the interruptions.

  Michael shuddered at the authority rolling off Jazz in hot, sensuous waves. Jazz was obviously no man’s minion.

  “Now, Jasper, dear, let’s have this discussion, but privately.” He gestured off to the side, looking nervously at his fans.

  All of Jazz’s cocky posturing was so damn sexy, Michael started to get an erection, which he quickly concealed with his bag.

  Good gracious, Jazz was flaring up Michael’s imagination and hitting all his hot buttons! He hadn’t met a guy who stirred him up like this in… well, ever.

  Pursing his lips in thought, Jazz gave a curt nod. “After you, then. I don’t want you sneaking off when my back’s turned.”

  Russell turned his grimace into a smile, and then he gave an elaborate bow to his fans. “If you’ll excuse me. Marital disputes, you know,” he said, his laughter sounding forced.

  A few awkward chuckles answered him.

  Michael watched them walk away, Jazz still holding his umbrella.

  He knew where Jazz worked, so he could get it back another time. But his curious nature won out, and he watched the two men arguing in a semiprivate corner of the bar. The aggressive way Jazz pointed in Russell’s face and the author’s resulting cower weren’t helping Michael’s below-the-belt disturbances.

  A crunch crunch sound drew Michael’s attention away from the argument and to Dylan. His arms were pretzeled tight and he was crushing the sucker with his teeth, the white stick bobbing up and down between clenched lips as he glared at Jazz.

  Jealous much?

  When Michael looked back at the argument, Jazz was stuffing a wad of bills into his pocket. Dylan saw it too and threw up his hands in disgust. Jazz stormed back, right toward Michael, his face livid.

  Michael took a step back in surprise, but nothing could have shocked him further than when Jazz said, “C’mon, Michael, let’s get out of here.”

  Hesitating for the barest of seconds, Michael glanced at Dylan—Jazz’s comment had shocked him as much as Michael—then hurried after Jazz.

  Jazz stepped out into the rain and popped open the big umbrella, then held it out so there was plenty of space for Michael to slip beneath too.

  “That smarmy, sneaky son of a bitch,” Jazz cursed, glaring down the street.

  “What did he say?” Michael made sure to keep his bag of books close to his stomach, being huddled under an umbrella with the very sexy Jazz Dilworth a potent aphrodisiac. Damn, his cologne smelled good—tangy and sweet at the same time. Michael’s mouth watered.

  Jazz regarded him for a moment, and the tension left his shoulders. He offered an apologetic smile. “You must think I’m a real drama queen, huh?”

  “Oh, no, not at all.”

  “When we decided to split up, it was easier not to go through the courts. Russell is famous, ya know? All I could imagine was our life becoming an episode of Gay Celebrity Divorce Court.” He sniffed a laugh. “We spend decades fighting for the right to marry, and we fuck marriage up just like everybody else.”

  Michael barely contained his laughter. Jazz had such a crass and colorful way of talking.

  “Anyway, we always kept our investments and bills separate, except for the house. Russell didn’t want to sell it, and I didn’t want to make him. So we made an agreement. He’d pay my car off and send me a check once a month until I got back my half of the down payment. He actually made out better than I did, but I didn’t care. I just wanted out. But I’m not stupid. I wasn’t signing an annulment or divorcing his ass until I got all my money back. Legally everything is still half mine. I did that finger-fucker a favor, and he can’t even stick with it.”

  “Probably spending his money on the twink,” Michael said.

  Jazz shot him a look. Before Michael could apologize, Jazz laughed, slapping Michael on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Probably.”

  Jazz didn’t stop smiling, and he didn’t drop his hand from Michael’s shoulder. Their gazes locked, and Michael’s pulse quickened. He licked his lips, wanting to kiss the man, ask him out, or simply say something clever, but his mind wouldn’t work!

  That hand slid away. “It was nice meeting you, Michael. Don’t judge me too harshly for all my drama.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” he insisted. “I mean, I didn’t.”

  Nodding, Jazz offered him another grin, then held out the handle of the umbrella. “Thanks again.”

  Michael fumbled with his bag and slipped the strap over his shoulder before taking the umbrella. “You’re welcome. Um… can I walk you back to your salon? It’s still raining.”

  “Nah, I’m good, but thanks.”

  “Oh, okay.” Michael couldn’t conceal his disappointment.

  “You’ve got my number. Don’t be a stranger. Maybe we can grab an ice cream some afternoon?”

  “Ice cream?”

  “Sure, everybody loves ice cream.” Jazz let out a breathy chuckle and brushed Michael’s hair off his brow, pushing it back into place with his fingertips.

  The gesture was so quick, probably just instinctive from a hairdresser, but Michael’s knees went watery and he had to stifle a whimper.

  “I’ll catch you on the flipside, Michael.”

  And with that, Jazz darted into the rain, looking both ways as he hurried across the street, leaving Michael standing there speechless.

  Chapter Two

  DYLAN ROBERTS was positively fuming! How dare that pony-tailed old queen humiliate Russell like that? Coming to his signing and demanding money?

  If only he could have told Jazz off.

  You left Russell, remember? Why should he still have to pay your way, you fucking freeloader?

  But no, Dylan had kept his mouth shut, like he always did.

  And though he was done being a man’s bitch, public drama with the ex-husband was the last thing he needed this weekend—if he wanted everything to go off without a hitch.

  He crunched the remains of his grape sucker and gnawed on the stick. Jazz stood outside under a big umbrella with that nerdy-looking fan who had brought all the books. Dylan wished he could shoot lasers out of his eyes at them.

  “Mind your facial expressions, Mr. Roberts,” Norbert leaned close to whisper in Dylan’s ear. “Camera phones and social media miss nothing.”

  Dylan flinched away from Russ’s obnoxious PR guy. Norbert was always creeping around and meddling in their lives. Probably had been Norbert’s idea for Russell to fuck Dylan over.

  Slimy bastard.

  “And remember what else I warned you about,” Norbert whispered. “No scenes or you will regret it.”

  Dylan was no fool. He knew Norbert was obsessed with Russell and wanted Dylan out of the picture. Like Russell would ever give the washed-up freak the time of day if the publisher hadn’t insisted Norbert was the best PR guy in New York.

  For someone in public relations and obsessed with surface appearances, one would think he’d dress better.

  Dylan gave Norbert a smirk, then held out his used sucker stick. “Here, I trust you can take care of this.” He dropped it into Norbert’s hand and spun on his heels.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Norbert ha
d a point. Dylan did not need to be seen as the jealous boyfriend today.

  Too much attention too soon.

  Gathering all of the acting ability he’d learned from leading roles in two high school plays before he ran away from his Baptist parents, Dylan smiled and sauntered up to Russell at the signing table.

  “Do you need a break?” Dylan asked sweetly. “That was pretty rude and upsetting for you, I’m sure.”

  Russell managed a brave smile. “I shall be fine, but thank you.”

  Dylan almost felt a twang of guilt at the grateful, genuine smile Russell gave him.

  Almost.

  Russell spread his arms as wide and as elaborate as his smile. “Forgive me for the interruption, my reader flock. I am all yours once more,” he announced to his fans, some of whom looked uncomfortable after the exchange with Jazz. Thank goodness the rain had forced them into this shitty little bar and all the fans waiting outside had missed the brouhaha.

  Dylan lingered behind Russell, dutifully restocking the books on the table as readers purchased the latest title. The bitter taste of betrayal soured Dylan’s mood further, solidifying the rightness of his decision.

  Yeah, Russell deserved this.

  Trying to keep his face neutral—for his own sake—Dylan stared at the back of Russell’s head, the thinning blond hair shellacked perfectly into place to hide his baldness. He wished things could go back to the way they used to be. Before Veronica sucked him into her schemes. Before Russell betrayed him. Back when he and Russell had first met and were hanging out with Uncle Wilson and his cousin Allison, both gay and also black sheep of Dylan’s Baptist family.

  The first time Dylan met Russell Withingham, he’d had no clue who he was. Just some middle-aged high roller coming into the Tonick nightclub in Detroit, where Dylan worked as one of the “twinks with drinks” selling watered-down fruity shots to the customers. Russell had taken a shine to Dylan immediately. Who could blame him?

  Dylan knew he was every old queen’s wet dream.